


Forgiveness in the Hands of the Betrayed

by FieryEclipse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Scene, Alternate Universe, DOLCE, First Kiss, Hannibal Season 3, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Husbands, Season 3, Slash, confession of feelings, determined Will, m/m - Freeform, sad Hannibal, save hannibal, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23171902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryEclipse/pseuds/FieryEclipse
Summary: “You're not angry with me.” Will realised.“Angry? No.” Hannibal paused in the act of collecting another spoonful of soup. His eyes didn't quite meet Will's. “Unpredictable emotions make way for unpredictable reactions. We are no more to blame for their existence than we are for with whom we fall in love.” He blew on the spoon and offered it to Will.This time he resisted, voice weak. “This isn't blameless, Hannibal.”__________________________________________________________________________An alternate take on Dolce – what if Hannibal didn't drug Will to saw into his head, but rather to look after his injuries? Feels, forgiveness and old wounds are finally brought to light.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 290
Collections: Wendigo & Stag





	Forgiveness in the Hands of the Betrayed

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at ever writing for Hannibal so please go easy on me ^.^ This short story accidentally wrote itself when I absolutely shouldn't have been distracting myself with fanfics, oops! But I can't say I'm too sorry about that X)  
> I hope you like it, and am excited to peek into a new fandom for the very first time.

Will roused in a cocoon of fresh, soft sheets and clean bandages. Light swarmed into his vision, stabbing at his eyes as he squinted around a lavish, expensive bedroom. He didn't know this place. His head was pounding, his shoulder throbbing dully, and he didn't even realise he'd waded his way free from the thicket of antlers encasing his dreams until something shifted at his side.

Hannibal looked elegant and at home in the rich armchair set next to the bed. He calmly crossed his legs, his eyes meeting Will's without shame.

A wash of familiarity rippled from the sight, enveloping Will until he could have been sitting opposite his psychiatrist in a rich, warm office at 7:30pm in Baltimore. Except Hannibal was tired. Hannibal was wounded. And they were both a long way from home.

_If I saw you everyday, forever, I'd remember this time_

“Good evening, Will.”

The soft timbre of that voice brought everything back all at once. The bone-deep ache of being thrown from a train was blissfully muted from Will's body, his right shoulder bound and pulsing dully where he'd recently been shot, just before...

Before.

Still coming to, Will consciously took a moment to ensure all his limbs were whole and accounted for. He may still have been drowsy from the drug Hannibal had administered, but even then he was entirely surprised to discover he hadn't been gutted again for his recent stunt, or worse.

Instead, Hannibal had cleaned him up, tended his bullet wound, redressed him in unfamiliar, soft clothes and tucked him carefully into bed. Struggling to sit up, Will blinked at this discovery. Then back at the man responsible. Perhaps most unsettling of his entire disorientation was the fact that Hannibal didn't even seem furious about Will's rash impulse to draw a knife on him in favour of forgiveness. Just disappointed. In the way that only a slight hoodedness to his eyes and tension to his lips could convey.

“You've been out for some time, I imagine you'll be hungry.”

Hannibal smoothly procured an ornate, covered bowl as if from thin air, blew on a spoonful, then brought it to Will's numb lips. Will drank the hot, biting liquid, feeling it warm him on the way down. It burned at his throat. Not so much the taste, but the gesture behind it.

He coughed a little. “Soup isn't very good.”

Hannibal's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, the tiniest flicker of relief that Will couldn't help but latch onto. “It's for the pain. With a little something extra stirred in.” Even if the fading drugs weren't making his tongue heavy, Will wouldn't have asked what – or who – the added extra was. The sparkle of self-indulgence on Hannibal's face told him he was better off not knowing anyway.

Will forced down another spoonful of soup. It spilled over his lips, over Hannibal's gentle fingers. Then he rested his heavy head back against the pillows, watching the other man, taking him in, truly _seeing_ him here, real, alive after existing for months only in Will's imagination.

“You're not angry with me.” He truly realised.

“Angry? No.” Hannibal paused in the act of collecting another spoonful. His eyes didn't quite meet Will's. “I confess, I was not certain what my own actions would be upon laying eyes on you again, Will. Just as you were uncertain of your actions toward me. We are quite alike, in that regard.” He lifted the spoon, blew on the surface once more and offered it to Will. “Unpredictable emotions make way for unpredictable reactions. We are no more to blame for their existence than we are for with whom we fall in love.”

This time Will resisted the food, voice weak. “This isn't blameless, Hannibal.”

The doctor obliged him, holding the spoon in mid-air with hands so steady that he didn't spill a drop. He took a moment to intricately craft a reply. “Would you rather I grant you the punishment you seek for your indecision?”

Despite Hannibal still avoiding his gaze, transparency skewered Will like a white-hot light was boring down upon his head. He squirmed a little, as much as his thawing limbs and bandaged torso would allow. He frowned, the question writing itself across his face. “...Why didn't you?”

Slowly, Hannibal returned the spoon to the bowl. This time he left it there. “I don't indulge much in regret. But each day since Baltimore has only served to remind me of the life I left behind that night. And futures that can no longer be.”

Will briefly closed his eyes to ward off the painful onslaught of memories, lingering like smoke in the corners of his vision. Pages fluttering down like snow; a lamb's rib cage exposed on the dinner table; the fallen stag's blood spilling across the kitchen floor; Abigail's final breath...

_Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?_

“I don't want to kill you, Will. And I do not believe you came all this way just to kill me.”

Will almost growled, his scar ripping freshly through his abdomen like a crack weakening a healed teacup. It was the very same call to action that had prompted him to reach for the knife earlier. “Are you sure about that?”

“Are you?”

And all the pain, all the rage, all the terror of his own desires fled from Will then, when Hannibal finally lifted his eyes.

That was all it took. One honest, _seeing_ glance. And then Will couldn't deny him anything, couldn't blame him anymore, and as much as he knew that he should he just couldn't find it in himself to hate this beautiful beast lurking behind this beautiful human veil.

Will's sigh shuddered on the way out. “I built a boat.” He stated bluntly. Hannibal twitched his head a little in intrigue, such a small gesture that someone else might have missed it. Will allowed himself to cherish the familiarity there. He didn't stop the self-deprecating smile that sneaked across his lips and infected the drawl of his words. “I repaired it from the ground up. Then sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to find you.”

“Seems counterproductive when a flight would have been just as adequate, if not more so, for your purposes.”

“A postcard would have seemed adequate for your purposes, Dr Lecter. But a postcard isn't as _elegant_ as a valentine written on a broken man.”

Hannibal didn't look at him again, trying to hide his amusement.

A contemplative, but not unpleasant, pause permeated the room. Will couldn't even scold himself for feeling so comfortable in an unknown city, in a stranger's bed, next to the man who had gutted him both figuratively and literally during their last encounter. The irony wasn't lost on him that he hadn't felt so much at home in a long, long time.

With a soft clink, Hannibal set down the ornate bowl on a tray at the end of the bed. “I should like to give you something, Will.” He bent to the ground, returning with a large, oak box inlaid with delicate carvings. It rested heavily on Will's thighs.

“A mutilated head?”

Hannibal smirked at this. “Very nearly.”

Will ran his good hand along the box's carvings. He couldn't remember the last time someone had given him anything remotely constituting a gift. Curiosity getting the better of him, although at this point Will didn't think he'd even be horrified to find a severed limb displayed for him with garnish, he opened the lid. Then stared at the object within.

“...Unpredictable emotions make way for unpredictable reactions.” He recited.

“Forgiveness is often too great, and difficult, for one person.” Hannibal caressed the words, weighted with every hour, every minute they'd spent apart, suffering alone, together. “Gifted, in the hands of the betrayed it can become the most dangerous of all weapons. Unless, of course, that forgiveness is reciprocated.”

Will reached for the gifted bone saw, tracing his fingertips lightly across the surface. The tool was clunky and mechanic and laden. It should have been grotesque. It shouldn't have been beautiful. But it was, catching the dying evening light and shining with the value of Will's life; of Hannibal's decision to spare it, not to fall back on his own instinct of self-preservation as Will had done and kill him. No wonder Hannibal didn't blame him for surrendering to such an impulse – if he'd had the chance he likely would have done the same thing. They really were alike, in that regard.

_Freeing yourself from me, and me freeing myself from you, they're the same_

“A self-inflicted blade.” Will murmured, his voice rough in his throat.

The men looked at each other for a long moment, sharing in their regret, their sorrow, the reluctance to let go the last line of defense and be open to attack once again. Hannibal broke free first, standing to collect the bowl and tray.

Perhaps it was an effect of the pain medication, or perhaps it was something else entirely that consumed him then, but Will strained against his wounds and reached for the older man, catching his hand and stopping him from leaving.

The confession took a moment to fall from his lips. “...I missed you. Every day.” He saw Hannibal's struggle to hide the impact of this, when the mere idea of such a sight had guided Will onward like a light through the stifling darkness of his recovery. The doctor's warm hand twitched beneath his, neither tugging free or returning the touch. “I chose _you_.” Will hissed through his teeth, pained, for that was all he could manage. “You knew that.”

Hannibal licked his lips, looking past Will rather than at him. “The damage had already been done.” He said quietly.

“You didn't give me a chance -”

“I gave you a chance. You didn't want it.”

He pulled away, his hand falling from Will's matter-of-factly, but he didn't resume his efforts with the tray. Instead he just stood there, neatening his sleeves and smoothing down a tie he wasn't even wearing. It might have been the first time Will had ever seen this man at a loss. It felt... intimate.

“I did.” He admitted, the first time he'd ever said the words, the first time he'd ever confirmed them.

Because Hannibal was right: he _had_ given Will the chance. After they'd finished the wine, after they'd cleared the table, perhaps Hannibal would have waited until they'd washed the dishes or maybe he would have surprised him by leading Abigail into the room right then? And she wouldn't have been scared, and Hannibal would never have been broken-hearted enough to sacrifice and lose her forever to punish Will for his deception. If only Will had made a different choice. If only he'd made up his mind sooner and accepted Hannibal's offer.

“I did want it.” He repeated, absently moving a hand to his abdomen, where his suddenly aching scar lay hidden beneath the blankets. The last crack on the surface of recently repaired china that refused to come back together. “I keep going over it. That night. I try to change it in my mind, turn back time and do things differently but... it's never enough.”

Hannibal eyed the movement. He watched Will's hand touch his mark of reciprocation, an act of desperation, as if one wound could ever be enough to catch the shards of shattered trust suspended weightlessly between them. Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. His eyes were heavy, his lips pursing with a dozen words he didn't let himself say. Then he sat back down. Not in the armchair but on the bed next to Will, close to him, close enough that Will knew he should have been apprehensive but wasn't.

Hannibal linked his own fingers together delicately, as if to keep his hands from straying. “One of God's cruelest machinations: not that we must live with the might of our choices, but that we only receive the clarity to recognise our mistakes in hindsight. All we can do is try to anticipate the repercussions of our next, and either adapt or surrender to them.”

Will's bandaged shoulder twinged, stemming the urge to reach out just a little and bridge the divide between himself and his betrayer, his betrayed. “What if we never adapt?” He asked.

Hannibal's gaze landed on Will's wounded shoulder. The latest scar of deception marking him forever, a reminder of his latest mistake, the promise he'd promised himself not to break when the moment finally came. Swallowing, Hannibal reached for the oak box on Will's lap. He brushed his fingers over Will's, lingering there for a single, prolonged heartbeat before easing the lid of the box closed. Then he lifted his weaponised forgiveness aside, away from temptation. Away from them.

“Then we hope the ones we love will love us in return, regardless of our scars.”

Will's abdomen itched again while disobedient tears rushed suddenly to his eyes. Through the burn he watched Hannibal turn back to him, distorted, and he was proud, midnight black, wearing his antlers like a crown that shrouded countless scars strewn across nude skin. Each one was a triumph. Each one was a kiss. And each one belonged to Will, the only person to be led behind the veil only to wound the creature lurking beneath. He was radiant.

Blinking rapidly, Will forced the tears and wendigo back the way they'd come.

“If time did reverse,” Hannibal's voice was rough, his earnestness clear in the way he leaned forward just slightly, and Will couldn't look away, “If we found ourselves returned to those moments with fate on our side, I would not make the same choices again, Will. Would you?”

Will's scar ached more than ever, dark roots burrowing so deep below the surface that they would be impossible to remove. Hannibal watched him with the exact same expression of patient reverence he had beneath the eyes of the Primavera _,_ at the precise moment Will had known that with one move all their past betrayals would be forgiven. They would have walked through the city together, both tired, wounded and limping. They would have climbed the stairs to a dead man's lavish apartment in silence, and as soon as the door closed behind them they would have fallen into each other as easy as breathing. There would be no stopping it. And it was this, that split-second of realisation in the gallery, that incited the panicked decision in Will to grab the knife in his pocket.

To this second, he couldn't say if he was planning to wield or discard it if Chiyoh hadn't intervened.

_Now is the hardest test. Not letting rage and frustration, nor forgiveness, keep you from thinking_

Fearing words were beyond him, Will slowly shook his head.

Hannibal exhaled like he'd been holding his breath, his face alighting with the hopeful corners of a smile. And that was it. That was how he should have looked after leaving the Uffizi gallery, if Will hadn't impulsively chosen the path of violence over forgiveness. But violence had been what he understood. It was familiar. Anything else, the _other_ means of influence, was foreign to him. Terrifying.

But... maybe that didn't have to be such a bad thing?

“What would you do differently?” Will asked, a barely there sound that Hannibal caught and cherished like the tender glow of a firefly cupped in his hands.

He looked honestly into Will's eyes, tired, vulnerable, exposed. There were no shields there anymore. Will could _see_ him, and Hannibal saw right back. He sighed. “Anything you asked of me.”

Will pressed harder over his scar, knots churning just below the slash of raised tissue that may as well have been letters carving a name on his skin. Hannibal noticed. Will shivered, terrified, alive, yearning for a touch he'd never known but recognised enough to miss.

“Now?”

The doctor didn't reply – couldn't – he didn't touch him, or even so much as move. And Will wanted to try and stab him all over again. But if time had reversed for them, and fate was allowing him to recant his chosen means of influence, then who was he to make the same mistake twice?

“Hannibal...” He exhaled, and it was impatience of all things that finally pushed him over. He fought to sit up from plush pillows, groaning at the pain that spiked in his shoulder, and the psychiatrist just watched him struggle, uncertainty pooling in his eyes, until Will grabbed him for balance, and a little for strength, and stared him down face to face. “Kiss me?” He whispered.

Hannibal's eyes briefly slid shut at the words, savouring them as he did a sip of the finest wine in Florence. Will wanted to smile at the absurdity of it, but he couldn't, he just watched, waited, as Hannibal reached out to trail a curl from Will's forehead and let his fingers fall to brush the cheekbone that still bore his burning handprint from last time. Then, taking his time, he leaned in just enough to press their lips together.

At first they both tensed. And then they gave in, conceding too easily as years of damage and wanting and waiting unfurled between them in one obscenely simple, longing kiss. It was only when Will's weakened limbs were shaking so badly with the strain he thought he might collapse that Hannibal cradled him in return, holding on tight.

They parted slowly, panting together as Hannibal's gaze roved over Will's face, dripping with devotion, stealing every detail to immortalise in a secret wing of his memory palace. Finally, Will smiled, the pain coursing through his bones irrelevant now. Then he bowed into Hannibal, hugging him one-armed, seeking the steady warmth of his paddle that he'd never been the same without.

The hand stroking his hair cast Will backwards through time, and the racing beat of another heart against his grounded him firmly back in Hannibal's Baltimore kitchen. This is how it should have gone. This is what they should have done, the first time. But then there would be no forgiveness, and there would be less scars, and Will found as he counted the wendigo's wounds in his arms that he liked the creature better this way.

“Will...” Hannibal squeezed him tighter, his grip tugging slightly in Will's curls, and Will knew he wasn't alone in that old kitchen, standing outside time. He leaned up once more, seeking the man through a cradling cocoon of antlers: his own, Hannibal's or both intertwined, he couldn't determine. He didn't care anymore what it meant. He was willing to lose himself this time, to sacrifice his morality if only to lie at the feet of the beast if he must –

“Dr Lecter!”

Will stopped just short of another kiss. His eyes snapped open, Jack Crawford's rough, panicked voice echoing through his head. But Hannibal's face just twitched in displeasure, his eyes remaining closed. After a pause he smiled, murmuring against Will's lips.

“It seems as though our guest of honour has finally awoken.”

He pulled back, that self-indulgent glint in his eye shining again, and Will didn't need to ask who had found them while he'd been unconscious. Or who had won the fight.

“ _Dr Lecter!_ ”

Jack's voice shook Will back to his senses. Back to Hannibal, back to them, back to their second chance unfolding for real right in front of them. He chuckled, impressed despite the fact he should definitely know better by now. “It seems as though time did return us to that dinner, after all. You, me and Jack.”

“Indeed.” Hannibal bit back a satisfied smile, touching Will's cheek again before letting him go entirely. Will shivered at the loss, wavering on his own impaired balance.

Hannibal procured something from out of sight. Then extended it for Will to take. He surveyed it, reluctant to accept his own knife again. Somehow it looked smaller than it had just that morning. Will's failed attempt at denial, his dropped forgiveness, his latest mistake confronting him anew out in the harsh, ugly light of hindsight.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow as amusement chased itself around his lips, their kiss still tingling on Will's. “Fate and forgiveness are once again in our hands, Will. Did you mean what you said earlier, or will you let this chance pass us by?”

Hannibal watched him intently, the knife shining in his hand like a golden apple, and Hannibal an irresistible demon. Will took his time to decide: bandaged and weak, exhilarated, liberated and bruised, feeling everything and anything all at once. But, he steadily realised, when picturing himself approaching Jack Crawford in the other room with Hannibal by his side, the one thing he didn't feel was sorry.

Bypassing his own knife in favour of retrieving Hannibal's abandoned oak box, Will wielded and weighed the cannibal's gifted forgiveness in his hands. Then he hauled himself to his feet, conceding to Hannibal's help and the proudest expression he'd ever received in his life.

Will fought back a grin. “I'm in a particularly forgiving mood.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't be shy to let me know what you think of my very first Hannigram fic, feedback is always cherished ^.^


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